The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(29)

José waited a little longer; then he kept going down the stairs. It was frustrating, but he would try again—and set up a surveillance outside of the address. The person or people in there had to leave for food at some point. He’d cross their paths sooner or later.

Just as he stepped out of the building, a black Escalade pulled up across the street. Between its darkened windows and matte black rims, it was clear that it belonged to somebody in the same chosen profession as the victim’s.

Not a lot of Door Dash deliveries in a vehicle like that. Or Lyft rides.

Maybe a diplomat. But like they’d get rerouted to a neighborhood like this?

Well, shit was about to get more interesting, wasn’t it.

He looked left. Looked right. No other cars around, either parked or traveling over the chipped pavement. No other lights on in any of the buildings on the block. Nobody walking the sidewalks or in any window, anywhere.

Considering he was all alone, maybe meeting whoever drove that thing in the open air was better. Not that he couldn’t be gunned down out here in the street, it just made it a little less likely than in that stairwell, for example.

Where was Butch O’Neal when he needed the guy. That Southie madman had been the best backup—

The SUV’s driver’s side door opened, and a long leg extended out. Black slacks—no, leathers. And then—

José froze. And couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

Who he was looking at.



“—leave my card. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

As the male voice permeated the closed door across the way, Rio strained against the gag in her mouth, trying to make a sound that the man could hear. When that failed, again, she arched against the ropes that bound her neck and her feet. She was lying on her side, her hands tied behind her back, her body strung tightly between two fixed points that she couldn’t see.

For all her efforts, the best she could do was make a swishing sound against the floor—but there was no way the soft noise was going to travel far.

With a strangled groan, she twisted her neck as much as she could—until, in her peripheral vision, she could see the glowing square of the stairwell’s light bleeding around the doorframe. Down at the bottom, the man’s feet cut a pair of reassuring shadows into the illumination.

On the far side of the barrier, Detective de la Cruz, who she knew, who was widely respected throughout all divisions, knocked one last time . . .

That set of shoes stepped away, the line of light at the floor now unbroken, once again.

As his footfalls receded and then went down the rickety steps, Rio’s long shot turned into an impossibility.

Gritting against the twist of cotton in her mouth, she screamed in frustration—or tried to. She was weak, and as the pressure flushed her face, she felt like the back of her skull was going to blow out. Or maybe that was the hangover from the drugs.

When she had come around from whatever Mozart had injected into her, she had been totally disorientated and nauseous—and the first thing she had worried about was vomiting. With the gag, she was liable to choke to death. Then, as her stomach had stopped churning so much, and she’d found no new injuries, she’d tried to see what she could about the decrepit room she was in. The windows were covered with blackout drapes, but the lengths were loose so the daylight had seeped through and created somewhat of a glow.

Enough for her to see. Enough for the video camera that was mounted on a tripod in front of her to record her.

There had been nothing else of note, no one with her, and nobody and nothing she could visualize off in the other shadowy spaces.

She knew the layout, however. Knew the smells, too.

Mickie’s building. She was in Mickie’s trap house. And there were people upstairs, directly above her. All day long.

At least, she assumed it was all day. Time had been a fluid thing, and only the progression of light had been a concrete measure that hours were passing. Well, that and the sounds of voices, male and female, and so many footfalls up and down the stairwell. There had been a lot of people in the building, and she knew who they were and what they were doing.

They were the homicide team.

Mozart had staked her out right underneath the crime scene.

Sick fucking bastard.

And now that they had pulled out, she knew that someone would be coming for her. Mozart wasn’t going to leave her alive here forever. The day and the beginning of the night had just been the mental-torture foreplay before the real fun and games for her began.

He’d done this before to people. She’d heard the rumors, knew that he liked to watch.

Desperate, she arched her back and strained her shoulders, pulling against the rope around her neck. When her airway started to close, she shifted the effort to her legs, dragging them up until her throat once again refused to let any oxygen through.

She got nowhere. And under other circumstances, she would really have respected the attention to detail that had to go into a setup like this. If she’d had just a little more leeway, she could have gotten someone’s attention by banging her feet, her head, her arms.

They’d definitely done this before, maybe in this very room.

And very soon, all of those professionals above, who had worked so hard on Mickie . . . were going to have another scene to work when Mozart and whoever he’d hired were done with her. Not that he was going to do the messy work with his own hands.